Lessons Learned
by sweetsingingwitch
Summary: The most important lessons Harry and Ginny Potter learn in their years of marriage are the ones they never knew they'd need.
1. Of Pop Stars and Wooden Spoons

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

Of Pop Stars and Wooden Spoons

He smiles as he leans against the wood frame entrance to the kitchen. She hasn't realized that he's home yet, that much is certain. If she had, the odds that she would be singing along with the wireless at full volume while dancing through the kitchen in her pajamas would be slim-to-none. He's never been so glad to escape her notice.

He debates calling out to her, but as she sways and shifts to the dance mix radio program of her current choosing, the morning light plays off highlights of her hair he hasn't noticed before, and her laughter sounds uninhibited for the first time in weeks. Entranced, Harry decides against making his arrival known in favor of observing this previously undocumented aspect of his wife's life.

She's in full performance mode, now, dancing down low and then spinning as she comes up, eyes closed, fiery hair whipping around to follow in a cometary's whirl. He appreciates her ability to miss the island counter with her eyes closed even as he envies the new target of her affections—their most dependable wooden spoon, now serving as a muggle-style microphone for her vocalizations. Ginny's not a half-bad singer, some portion of his brain notes, for someone who has absolutely no idea that she has an audience. Then she executes a twirl and swivel move that drives all thought of her musical ability completely from his mind. It's one of those mysteriously "girl" moves that only the female of the species seems capable of pulling off without injury, he muses; and while he is very much aware of the fact that his wife is female, thank-you-very-much, he had no idea anything like_ that_ was in her arsenal.

The end of the song comes with a few flourishes and snappy movements complete with a final, provocative pose. When he brings his hands together in the suddenly quieter kitchen, the spoon falls to the floor with a clatter and she turns quickly, wand appearing from nowhere to point at his chest. His applause ceases as he tries desperately not to laugh at her scandalized expression. She keeps her wand on him a second longer, debating, no doubt, whether to hex him for not speaking up when he first arrived. Her wand lowers as she smiles sheepishly, "How long have you been home?"

"Long enough," he answers, pushing off the doorframe and entering the room at last, "to learn that my wife is actually a pop-star in a quidditch star's body."

It is gratifying that even after all they've been through together, he still has the ability to make her turn that fantastic shade of Weasley red.


	2. On Looking Good in Orange

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

On Looking Good in Orange

This was one of those times, he decided, that there should be a "How To" guide for raising children. Maybe if there was, he wouldn't be sitting on the floor of the kitchen, covered in mashed carrots and something green and sticky. Though if he were being honest with himself, he'd probably still be sitting here covered in miscellaneous foodstuffs, but at least he would have expected it, and prepared accordingly. As it was, his new trainers were done for and a second shower had just been added to his to-do list for the morning.

Fabulous.

He looks up at his son through the edge of his vegetable strewn hair, and crinkles his nose, "Thanks James."

The young boy squeals rapturously, banging on the tray of the high chair with small, chubby fists. In his left hand he clutches a small quantity of o-shaped cereal bits, and he alternates between stuffing them in his mouth and rubbing them in his hair as he giggles at his father.

From the doorway comes the tell-tale click of a camera, and Harry turns towards the sound. Ginny stands with one hand over her mouth and tears streaming down her face as she joyfully brandishes the camera they'd purchased during her pregnancy. "Oh Harry, you…you should…," she gasps, trying to control her mirth and, failing, slides down the doorframe to sit on the floor, shaking with laughter.

"I think Mummy's gone round the twist, little man," Harry says as he gathers himself to rise. Ginny waves one hand in their general direction, both acknowledging and dismissing his statement as Harry gathers a cloth from the sink and advances on the giggling menace in the chair. Wide eyes follow the soft yellow rag as it makes its descent to a messy cheek; a few squirming moments later a pink faced baby emerges from behind a mask of pureed foods. The hands are slightly more difficult, as James is not ready to relinquish his cereal bits just yet, but in the end, victory is a clean child.

With a small, satisfied smile, Harry takes the cloth back to the sink as Ginny, now composed, lifts James into her arms and carries him to his crib in the nursery. As mother and child leave, the kitchen lapses into a peaceful silence. At the sink, Harry rinses the yellow cloth and sets it to dry. With a contented sigh, he turns to the table in the corner to retrieve his wand and begin the cleanup. Halfway to the table, he slips on a slick of carrots and lands with a thud on the kitchen floor. Another sigh, this one resigned, and Harry flops backward in the carrots to stare at the kitchen ceiling. An amused snort informs him that he is no longer the sole occupant of the kitchen, and Ginny enters his field of view as he sits up a few seconds later.

She ruffles his sticky hair as she walks past him, calmly vanishing the kitchen mess as she speaks, "You look good in orange, Harry."


	3. On Getting a Good Night's Rest

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

On Getting a Good Night's Rest

It's late when he slips through his front door and up the stairs. He skips the fifth step, which creaks, and dodges the potted fichus on the landing on the way up. When he reaches the bedroom door, he hesitates, turns, and softly makes his way down the hall.

He stops at the first door on his right and slowly turns the knob. A moment later he is surrounded by a child's clutter. Books and toys litter the carpeted floor, though Harry notes with amusement that the corner where James' toy broomstick resides is immaculate. The moonlight shining through the wide picture window casts its pale light on bright walls, partially covered with drawings and finger paintings; if one looked closely, many of the drawings had already begun to resemble makeshift quidditch plays, all x's and o's in swirling patterns. The bed, too, is a tangle of youthful energy; even in sleep, James is a study in perpetual motion.

Bright orange sheets are wound around the small body, miniature snitches and bludgers dancing across the folds as James' chest rises and falls. Harry watches, transfixed, as the boy snorts in his sleep, rolls to the side, and promptly falls back into tempo. The pillow is on the floor, the double C's of its logo clearly visible even in the nighttime darkness. How Ron had managed to corrupt his son so very early was a mystery to Harry, but the infatuation was well and truly complete--every game watched, every player memorized, and James barely two years old!

A snuffly sound from the next room, followed by one plaintive wail, draws Harry's attention away from the boy in the bed. Quickly and quietly he withdraws to the hallway and steps lightly to the next door. He approaches the crib inside and peers at the child within. "Albus, my man, what's wrong?" he asks, scooping the crying baby up and cuddling him to his chest. "How about a new nappie and a cuddle? Does that sound good? Yeah, I think so, too."

A few minutes later, Harry sinks into the recliner by the window with a newly clean and dry Albus. He appraises the little body in his arms, running long fingers over dark, wispy hair, down a chubby cheek, and across tiny, pink hands. Wide, dark green eyes regard Harry with interest, and he can't help but see himself in that gurgling face. Albus has Ginny's nose, but the rest is as pure Evans-Potter as Harry himself is. The tiny fist grabs Harry's finger and holds on tightly, as if agreeing with the assessment. Albus yawns mightily and blinks at his father, who chuckles.

"We should get you to bed, little man," Harry says, but merely adjusts the chair to a laying position and shifts the boy to a more comfortable spot, enjoying the feel of the tot snuggling into his shirt near his heart. "But we'll just lay here a bit, first. It's such a beautiful night…"

Ginny Potter stands in the doorway to the nursery, gazing at the scene before her. She'd woken up this morning to an empty bed and no note from Harry telling her that he'd not be able to come home. She'd been furious, worried, and ready to send off a Howler if she'd not gotten word by breakfast. He'd promised to come home and get a good night's rest! When she'd gone to check on her boys, however, she'd only gotten to the baby's open door before she located her wayward husband, sound asleep in his favorite recliner with Albus curled on his chest.


	4. On Murphy's Law and Relatives

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

On Murphy's Law and Relatives

It wasn't that Harry Potter didn't love his children—he did, more than life itself—it was more that at times it was hard to like the little blighters. Times like this one, actually, he mused, definitely made the list of "Times Harry Potter Seriously Considered Sending His Children to Live With Molly and Arthur, Permanently". Then again, from what Harry had heard of Ginny's childhood at the Burrow, events like these would probably continue. On some level, this made him quite pleased; if Harry could provide half the loving childhood for his children that the Weasleys had given theirs, he knew he must be doing something right. On another level, however, he was annoyed. Or perhaps frustrated. Or maybe even embarrassed. He wasn't really sure which emotion was appropriate.

How is one supposed to feel if he finds himself hanging upside-down from the branch of a tree, coated in a sticky substance and a layer of soft, white chicken feathers?

Right now, Harry was going to settle for dizzy, with a side of exasperated for the fact that his wand was in his back pocket, just out of reach of his tangled up hands. He snorted at his stupidity, then immediately regretted the action as his nose filled with down. The resultant sneezing fit caused his glasses to slide off his face and onto the grass below, leaving Harry bound and blind several feet from solid ground. With a resigned sigh, he stilled and began to re-evaluate the situation. Perhaps he could find something to work with. Alright: he's upside down, tangled in a thick rope, hanging from a tree limb, covered in something gooey, and covered in feathers. His wand is lying in the grass underneath his glasses, and his hands and feet are useless. Given the position of this particular tree, yelling for help would only make him hoarse. No, no matter how he looked at it, this was not a good situation.

When he really thought about it, however, the upside-down part was the worst of it. If he could fix that, he wouldn't be dizzy (as long as he kept his eyes closed on the very blurry world). If he wasn't dizzy, he could think of a better plan. If he thought of a better plan, he might even get out of this before the rest of the family arrived for dinner that evening. It was a wholly satisfying logic loop for Harry. So now, to re-establish his verticality!

Harry twisted a few times, squinting to get a general idea of the layout of his tree. It was one of the bigger ones, he realized, a favorite climbing spot for his children and a frequent picnic location over the years. The branches to his right were all too far to be useful, but to his left…There! A beacon of hope in the form of a small but sturdy branch just a couple of feet away. His plan decided, Harry began to swing his body back and forth in his bindings, building momentum inch-by-precious-inch. He brushed the branch several times before his bindings caught it, and the result wasn't quite what he'd hoped, but Harry supposed that being horizontal was still better than his previous position. As the blood in his body redistributed itself in a more normal fashion, he decided that this position was almost comfortable, even. He settled in to wait, and to figure out a better plan.

Some time later, Harry was awoken by the sound of crunching twigs and someone calling his name. Groggily, he registered that he was still in the tree, and that thought brought him to complete wakefulness.

"Harry! Oh Har-eeee! Where are you—ooo?!" With a groan, Harry identified the voice coming steadily closer to his tree. Of all the people to find him, why did it have to be…

"Oi! Potter! Would you like to come down, or are you a bit tied up at the moment?"

Harry sighed and opened his eyes to stare at the redheaded blob below.

"Hello, George."


	5. On the Power of Loving Arms

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

On the Power of Loving Arms

It was on nights like these that all Harry wanted was a set of clean, dry robes, a shot of Ogden's Finest…and to forget the last five hours of this life. He must be some sort of masochist, the way he still got involved in big cases after ten years (and four promotions) with the Aurors. Technically, he could stay at the Ministry, calmly sipping tea and filing paperwork while waiting for reports from the scenes of events such as these; technically. The reality was that every time another episode of rogue Death Eater activity was reported to his special task force, Harry was neck-deep in alligators before he realized he'd waded into the swamp. Every new crime scene was another sickening revelation into just how depraved the human soul could become.

Tonight was no different: a young muggleborn kidnapped from her home in eastern London three days ago, found in a decaying farmhouse in rainy Wales. The memory of her bruised and abused form lying in the dirt of that leaking venue was likely to haunt the dreams of every Auror involved for days to follow. There was no way to even begin to tell what horrifying acts she was forced to participate in until the magical analysis came back from St. Mungos. That was the saving grace of this case, actually—that the girl was in St. Mungos and not at the morgue. They'd found her, she was alive, and barring some unknown Dark curse not revealed in their initial survey, she would survive. Unfortunately, so would the memory of her terrified eyes before they'd identified themselves as Aurors from the Ministry of Magic.

Harry shuffled wearily to the Ministy floo, placing a tired hand on Ron's shoulder briefly before stepping into the green flames. His head hurt, and his heart ached, with what he'd seen that night. He kicked off his boots and unfastened his outer robes as he stepped into his kitchen, not bothering to wipe the soot from them before tossing the muddy mess in the general direction of the laundry. There was no saving that set without strong soap and a whole lot of luck. Barefoot and starting to shiver, Harry hauled himself up the stairs. As much as he wanted to crawl into bed right now, he needed a shower first. It wouldn't do to wake his pregnant wife at three in the morning, so he padded quietly to the hall bath and turned the water as hot as it would go.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing under the stinging spray, fog swirling around him and tears streaming down his face, when a pair of freckled arms wound around him and gathered him close. "Harry, love, you can't protect them all. Come to bed."

Mid-morning, Harry Potter awoke with those same delicate arms wrapped around him, Ginny's slightly rounded belly pressing into his side as she slept. The coldness, that only hours earlier he'd sworn would never leave him, of the night before replaced with something warm and a little exciting; something a bit like hope. Merlin, he loved this woman.


End file.
